


What's In A Name?

by MusicalProstituteMyDear



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Caregiver!Joan, Commentary, Diapers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I suck at summaries I am So Sorry(tm), Infantilism, Littles Are Known, Non-Sexual Age Play, Thumb-sucking, alternative universe, little!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalProstituteMyDear/pseuds/MusicalProstituteMyDear
Summary: Baby Sherlock gets asked an... interesting question on the playground.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson (Elementary), Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	What's In A Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, so today I got home from work, ate half a quart of chocolate ice cream, took a two hour nap, then banged out this idea in, like, under three hours. It’s a deviation from my other thing, and to make a long story short, the only difference here is that this is a Littles Are Known!AU. Sherlock’s dad still sets them up together, Joan is still Sherlock’s caregiver, they still consult for the NYPD when he’s big, etc, etc. I’d place this a few months after the events of season one, so they're still pretty fresh in their relationship.
> 
> P.S. This is somewhat a commentary fic on the fact that I (personally) believe regressed Sherlock wouldn’t call Joan any variation of ‘mommy.’ I have n o t h i n g against such a notion, I think it’s so friggin’ cute, but that's the major topic of this one-shot.

After a long stretch of dreary weather in New York, the sun had finally decided to peer through the drab clouds and make herself known to the summer sky. Cooped up indoors with a hyper Little for weeks on end proved to be a bit of a challenge for Joan Watson, but thankfully it gave herself and Sherlock plenty of bonding time, allowing the pair to learn more about themselves and their relationship. The city is a vast expanse filled to the brim with people from all walks of life, and by some heavenly grace Sherlock and Joan were able to waltz into each other’s lives and be the other’s personal source of sunshine in a contrarily lackluster domain. 

“Where are we going, Joanie?” Sherlock asks, holding on tightly to his caregiver’s hand as they walk across the busy street. 

She smiles at him and adjusts the strap of her purse with her free hand. “Well, I was thinking since it’s so hot out today, we could go play at the park for a while. Sounds like fun, right?”

A worried look blossoms on the boy’s face. “W-will people s-see me?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” The caretaker did her best to keep her composure, as she could tell her little one was alarmed at the thought of other regressors present. “Lucky for you, I think there’s a sandbox where we can go digging for dinosaur bones and long-lost treasure.”

He gasps audibly, eyes lighting up like fireflies. “Really?”

“Just promise me you won’t try to eat the sand, mister.” To which he nods enthusiastically.

Joan would place Sherlock’s headspace at two-and-a-half, three at best. He was certainly more active than usual, yet his vocabulary was limited and he was still reliant on her for essentially everything. When Morland Holmes first contacted her, she would admit she was incredulously taken aback when she learned that his son was not only an addict, but a _Little_ (yes, classified at sixteen, ergo the capital ‘L’). It was incredibly rare for people of such classifications to ever come in contact with drugs or alcohol, much less develop any form of dependency for them. Joan was glad that Sherlock had made legitimate progress with recovering after their predetermined six weeks together, and after she’d agreed to stay on as his full-time caregiver, she’d made it her top priority to help him get more comfortable in his headspace, a necessity he’d neglected for far too long; after all, he’d had very few opportunities prior to their meeting where he could comfortably regress. 

Brooklyn had just opened up their very first playground designated for Littles and other regressors, meaning this particular area was busy with children-of-mind at play. When they made it past the gates, Sherlock still hasn’t let go of her hand. While the adult version of Sherlock was notorious for his exceptional brilliance, lexicon, and tendency to bring down killers, the little one Joan had come to love was inclined to being adorably shy around anyone that wasn’t her. She could tell how worried he’d become upon viewing how many other Littles were so freely at play, and squeezed her hand around his own to let him know she was still present. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she remarks, hearing a tiny mewl escape his throat. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Sherlock takes his thumb out of his mouth (when did he even put it in there?) to point to his left, where Joan notes the sandbox. She observes a girl, another regressor, sitting quietly and building a castle by herself. She’s approximately in her late twenties, with curly, auburn hair done up in a ponytail. 

Joan can sense the uneasiness from Sherlock’s body radiating by the degree. “I think she could use a friend, Sherlock,” Joan conveys in a candied tone. “Want to go say ‘hi’ with me?” Her charge is quiet for a moment or two, but after looking at her once more for reassurance, agrees to it. 

The duo walks closer to the wooden box, Joan attempting to redirect his apprehension by asking him questions about what he would want to build. Before he can even process what she said, the little girl notes their presence and greets them with a sickeningly friendly smile. “Hullo!” she waves. “I’m Juniper, like the tree!”

Joan raises her eyebrows in pleasant surprise. This Juniper seems like a talker—perhaps she would help Sherlock open up and become more secure in his own regressed state. “Hello, Juniper, what a pretty name you have. I’m Joan, and this here is Sherlock. What’re you making?”

“‘M makin’ a fort! Gotta hide from the bad guys,” Juniper giggles. “Wanna help?”

There’s conflict brewing in Sherlock Holmes’ mind: on one hand, he’s never met this girl before! She could be a total meanie for all he knows, embarrassing himself in front of the other kids if she made him cry (which was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted). But, on the other, Juniper’s fort did look really interesting... he didn’t know what to do!

Eventually, he musters the courage to smile at his caregiver and finally plop down in the sand across from her. “Yes p’eas,” Sherlock murmurs timidly.

“Aw, well, I’m just gonna sit right over there if you need me. Have fun, honeybee.” Joan softly pets his hair a few times before retreating to a vacant wooden bench a ways from where the children were at play. 

She pulls a book out of her purse (which also discreetly doubled as a diaper-bag) and begins to read, glancing up at him every so often. After a while, she can tell he’s begun to let his guard down as Juniper babbles away at him. The tee-shirt he was wearing was beginning to ride up his back, so Joan could see the waistband of his diaper just slightly above his shorts. This was his first-ever time interacting with another Little, not to mention one that was around his age, hence his overall reluctance to introduce himself to her on his own. He was a detective, all things considered; learning the habits of “normally” raised Littles would potentially help him if they ever went undercover when he was Big. Shaking herself from her thoughts, Joan ‘aww’ed quietly before diving back into her step-father’s newest novel.

Meanwhile, Sherlock has busied himself in building off of her creation, making some sort of tower on top of the one she’d already made. While he was more interested in digging, he would be lying if he said he didn’t like the company. 

“You’re quiet,” Juniper observes. “How old are you?”

Hesitantly, the boy holds up two fingers, which causes his friend to giggle quite a bit. Sherlock didn’t think his answer was that funny, but he grinned nonetheless. 

“Why d’you sound different from your mommy?” She asks innocently. Most Littles don’t exactly have the frame of mind for a ‘verbal filter,’ and although she didn’t mean for the question to sound rude in any approach, he couldn’t help but string together the obvious spoken gist. 

“Um—”

“Oooh, I know, you’re adopted! ‘Das weird, Sherlie,” Juniper infers, lifting up a tiny plastic shovel from the ground as if in triumph. “Your mommy is really nice! I like her lots.” 

Sherlock looks at her baffled, utterly confused. He wasn’t adopted! What on earth possessed her to think that? “Joanie _isn’t_ my mummy...”

She reciprocates the puzzlement. “Do you have a daddy?”

“...No.”

“Oh.” The little girl didn’t know what to make of her new friend: he didn’t have a mommy, or a daddy, but that lady she met before takes care of him like one. Did they... leave? These were really big thoughts she was having, and she didn’t want to upset Sherlock, so she quickly changed the topic to herself. “ _My_ mommy is over there. She bakes me sweets, and-and brushes my hair, and reads to me when I’m sad. Hi, mommy!” 

Juniper manages to get the attention of a tall, sophisticated, blonde-haired woman in her late-thirties tip-tapping away on her cell-phone, who happens to be seated on the opposite end of the same bench as Joan. Her caregiver waves back to her and blows her a kiss before Juniper resumes her interest in Sherlock. 

“J-Joanie tells me lotsa stories, too,” he comments quietly. 

Juniper claps her hands together. “Yay! Readin’ is fun!” she exclaims. “Wanna go play on the jungle-gym?”

Sherlock looks back at Joan, who gives him an encouraging smile. He was unsure of how the other Littles would react to him, and his caregiver was well aware of this, but their unspoken rule went that if he ever felt uncomfortable with anyone or anything, all he had to do was say the word and they’d be out of there in a flash. The last standard Sherlock Holmes held himself to was conforming to a conventional one, meaning he didn’t expect those outside of his support-system to try to understand how he personally operated. It wouldn’t hurt to try, he concludes, and follows Juniper over to the slide. 

“They’re too precious.”

Joan glances to her right to find the aforementioned woman grinning like she’d just won the lottery. She returns the beam, dipping her head in agreement. When she extends her hand, Joan takes it, introduces herself, and learns that her name is Willow, she works for Google. Ever the detective, Joan quickly gathers that Willow (evidently, a lover of botany, hence her Little’s similarly-themed name) is an avid smoker and has recently undergone a tough divorce. Poor dear.

She closes the book on her lap and crosses her legs. “I’m guessing she’s yours?” 

Willow deeply inhales. “Oh yeah, Junie’s a spitfire, alright. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, ever since I was a teenager, but a couple years back I was diagnosed with cervical cancer and my doctors told me my chances of conceiving were slim. That’s when my husband and I looked into adopting. Well, ex-husband, now.” She tucks a piece of loose hair behind her ear. Joan internally pats herself on her back. “Best decision we ever made. Juniper saved my life, I tell ya. Being a mommy is just so rewarding, isn’t it?” 

Whenever Joan and Sherlock went out when he was Little, New Yorkers would assume that she was his nanny, or some other sort of caretaker that wasn’t as “official” in the eyes of society as a title such as ‘mommy’ or ‘daddy.’ Despite the fact that she saw eye to eye with the fundamentals of her last statement, there was one word that Joan didn’t quite resonate with. Being a _caregiver_ was beyond gratifying for her. Sherlock’s mother passed away when he was just a child (well, the first time around), and so the word had a painful connotation in his mind. Joan honoured that ideal marvelously; her prime concern would always be the boy’s happiness and wellbeing—whatever was best for him, Joan would go to any length to ensure it.

It was best to keep things simple, avoid complication whenever necessary. Joan didn’t need to explain her personal matters to a total stranger, anyway. “Oh, absolutely,” expresses she, which catalyses a whole new strain of tiresome conversation between the ladies about the endeavors of balancing their work with their rambunctious Littles. They chat—”chat” of course meaning that Joan leant her ears—for a while, keeping a watchful eye over them as they played candidly in the welcoming summer air. Sherlock actually appeared to be enjoying himself, albeit dubiously. 

After a considerable spell of time passes, Joan could tell that Sherlock was growing drowsy. Whenever he fiddled with the hem of his shirt, or flexed his fingers, or bounced up and down, or blinked once-too-many, she knew it was time to put him down for a nap or get him to bed early. Joan Watson knew her Little, there was no doubt there.

“Sherlock!” Joan shouts pleasantly to him, glancing at her watch to ensure that Willow ‘caught her drift,’ so to say. “C’mon sweetie, we have to go.” 

With Olympic speed, Sherlock says goodbye to his playmates and has made his way over to her, fully out of breath, giggling away. Joan was thankful today was one of his more obedient days (he had the potential to be quite the little menace if he felt like it). She could only pray it continued.

“It was a pleasure meeting you both!” Willow stands to greet the toddler, who gets charmingly bashful in the presence of another adult. “Joan, maybe we can set up a playdate for the kiddos sometime?” 

After an exchange of cell numbers, Joan zips up the contents of her purse, and the two are on their way. She has a feeling they’ll never see Willow nor Juniper ever again, and that Sherlock shared her exact point of view.

“Wanna get some ice cream?”

* * *

The two had a few errands to run after they strolled out of the park and finished off their busy day with a frozen treat (Joan got strawberry and Sherlock chocolate, although he mostly wore it as a mustache the entire time... thank God for wet naps). The sun had nearly set beyond the horizon as they walked up the stairs to their beloved Brownstone. Unlocking the front door and walking inside, she looks behind her to feel something— _someone_ —tug on the back of her blouse.

She kisses his cheek and guides him inside. Locking the door following them, Joan has him sit on the second step of the staircase so that she can untie his shoes. He would always ask her to teach him how to lace up his shoes, but would get mildly frustrated, when Joan would rather him not. 

“Joanie?” A timid voice poses.

Joan smiles at her baby, sliding off one Converse sneaker. “Yes, baby?”

His eyebrows have turned inwards, and Joan could see the beginning of tears at the corner of his eyes. Sherlock’s fidgeting with the trim of his shirt again—he’d never been this nervous about asking her questions in the past, meaning something was not settling well with him. 

The fussing grows a tad louder, but all he can vocally manage is a whisper. “Are you my mummy?” 

She’s able to take off his last shoe and discard it in the foyer before glancing up at him. His bottom lip is trembling, and Joan’s soul shatters. She hates to see him in distress of any capacity, especially when he’s on the verge of crying.

“Hey, don’t cry, sweetie,” she consoles, cupping the left side of his face with her hand, massaging his wobbly cheek. “Can you tell Joanie what upset you?”

Sherlock takes a trembling breath but never breaks eye contact with her. “A-At the playground, Junie sa-aid I-I’m weird because you aren’t my mummy…”

The detective has to think for a moment before speaking: that other Little seemed so sweet, how could she say something so insensitive to him? While she may appear unfazed on the outside, Joan’s thoughts were racing. “Well, in a way, I kind of am. Do you know what a Caregiver is, honey?”

The boy nods tentatively. “You?”

“Yes, just like me. Now, the Littles—like you—need to have a Caregiver to look after them, and feed them, and _tickle_ them,” reinforcing her point by dancing her fingers around his tummy, making him laugh a bit. “Littles need Caregivers just like Caregivers need Littles. To love each other, no matter what. A Little can pick any name for their Caregiver. It doesn’t have to be ‘mommy,’ or ‘daddy,’ but those are the ones you hear a lot, huh?”

“Mhm!” 

“It can be… anything you want. It’s something very special, like a present you give out at Christmas or at a Birthday. Whatever you pick, Sherlock, I will _adore._ You know why?” He shakes his head, genuinely engaged in her explanation. “Because _you_ picked it out for me. You aren’t weird, you’re _exceptional_. More importantly _, you_ matter most to me, bumblebee.”

When Sherlock flings his arms around her neck, engulfing her in an intense bear-hug, Joan can’t help but return his devotion and warmth. She grew more proud of him with every passing hour. 

As she lifts him off the stairs and begins to carry him to bed, she can feel him squeezing her even tighter, slurring sleepily into her hair: “I luv’ you, Joanie.”

“I love you most, Sherlock.” 

You can’t put a label on pure love, anyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, loves! Many thanks for reading. Got any critiques, prompts, ideas? Don't be shy! I'd love to know what you think! Xx


End file.
